


black seeds in her heart

by TelekineticIssue



Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Character Death, F/M, Gen, Hurt/attempted comfort lmao, Living World Episode: s04e05 All or Nothing, Rytlock tries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:46:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28230366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TelekineticIssue/pseuds/TelekineticIssue
Summary: Commander Vyrea Moonshield encounters her mother for the first time in Orr. Years later, she witnesses the last breaths of a woman who cared nothing for her amidst the aftermath of Kralkatorrik's attack on Thunderhead Keep.
Relationships: Rytlock Brimstone/Player Character
Kudos: 3





	black seeds in her heart

**Author's Note:**

> I legitimately have no idea who's reading GW2 fic on AO3 but if someone out there would like to see more of my work I'd be happy to share it. You can find me on tumblr @charrbys, where I mostly shitpost or talk about my favorite war kitty commander.
> 
> Title taken(ish) from Churchyard by AURORA

“Name and rank?” Vyrea didn’t look up from the maps she had spread in front of her, brow furrowed as her eyes scanned the inked landscape for something, anything that could give them an advantage against the Risen. The soldier who had so boldly intruded upon Vyrea’s tent didn’t reply, instead clearing her throat with a haughty motion of her head.

Vyrea fixed her eyes on the soldier with an amount of disdain in them that would have cowed a smarter charr than this one seemed to be. She was shorter than Vyrea, though her fur pattern tickled some memory in the commander as they stared each other down.

“Name and rank?” Vyrea repeated, voice now dripping with annoyance as her lip curled into a snarl.

“Claudia Heartrot, Vigil Crusader,” the shorter charr replied, “but you should treat your mother with more respect.”

“You’re not my mother,” Vyrea said instinctively as the image of the charr who raised her rose to mind. “Her name is Aquila.”

“I gave birth to you twenty-five years ago, you ungrateful brat,” Claudia snapped, hunching forward to stick her face close to Vyrea’s. “You should be grateful that I’m willing to claim you now!”

“Barging into my tent and insisting upon it is not the way to earn my respect. Get out, before I throw you out myself,” Vyrea replied sternly, using a single claw placed in the center of Claudia’s nose to push her back. A single drop of blood spilled from the pinprick wound, and the necromancer’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“You b-“ Claudia began, but a commotion from outside the tent flap stopped the two bristling charr from leaping at each other with bared fangs. Altrevian rushed inside, panting heavily and moving his hands in panicked disarray.

“Vyrea! We have a wave of Risen inbound, pursuing a scouting party!”

“On it, Al. Crusader Heartrot, this conversation is over. Never, and I mean never, speak to me again.”

…

_Pain._

Vyrea felt as if she’d been beat with a hammer as large as her. Every part of her was sore, from her nose to the tip of her tail, and she could feel a stronger ache in her skull that betrayed a break in her horns without her even seeing it. Despite her unsteadiness, she stood, noting the plain cotton shirt and trousers she wore. They were her own. Rytlock must have found her bag and brought them to the infirmary.

With heavy hands she pulled aside the curtain screening off her bed from the rest of the room; a few faces looked up hopefully at her, at the commander, but she couldn’t bring herself to meet their eyes. Her gaze wandered over the ranks of the injured as the cries of the wounded and the scent of blood, infection, Brand, and death hit her like a wave of putrid water. So many fallen. Vyrea couldn’t bring herself to confront that image that lurked behind her eyelids whenever she blinked. The strain of the Zephyrite choir’s song that wound through Vyrea’s head seemed sour now, in the face of all the dimming and extinguished lights in front of her.

The charr in the cot to her left stirred an unpleasant memory, throwing Vyrea briefly back into Orr, if only in her mind’s eye. Her mother lay there, white fur soaked a deep crimson and matted to her body. Claudia’s armor lay shredded beyond repair next to her, pieces of violet crystal still clinging to it, caked in place by yet more blood. Vyrea stared dumbly at Claudia for a few seconds. Vyrea could have lied to herself and said she was upset to see her mother in such a state, but some part of her deep down reared its head and spat an ugly satisfaction at what it saw as a proper consequence. Claudia’s breathing bubbled through her lips with a wet sound that betrayed internal damage beyond what could be bandaged, and her face was tight with pain.

It seemed as soon as Vyrea had noticed it, the sound stopped. A moment passed before a human medic approached and attempted to find a pulse on the still charr. Failing, he lifted a sheet over Claudia’s face and signaled to a pair of norn that she was to be removed. Vyrea’s jaw hung slack as the two lifted the body and solemnly bore it away. Vyrea was struck with the notion then that she was some plaything of whatever power ruled over and yet was too afraid to show itself to the charr. A cruel irony it was for her to be present for the final breaths of the woman who had cared nothing for her and never disguised it. Had anyone else seen? Or was she the sole witness?

“Com...Vyrea.”

His voice was rough and cracked with relief and swallowed tears. Vyrea turned blank eyes to Rytlock. He hadn’t seen—how could he have, he’d only just stepped inside—but he’d always known when something was troubling the commander.

 _His_ commander.

Vyrea motioned him behind the curtain and pulled it closed, then sat heavily on the bed, legs dangling over the side. She could feel the tug of stitches in her left thigh and knew if she checked, a good half of it would be shaved.

“My mother,” she said at length.

Rytlock remained silent.

“She never cared for me. Maybe it’s a mercy that she’s gone.” 

“For you, or her?”

“Both.”

“Hm.”

The bed creaked as Rytlock sat down next to her, taking one of her hands in his own.

“...Aurene?” she whispered. Rytlock shook his head and sighed. She rested her head on his shoulder, reflecting that this was one of the few times she’d seen him without his armor on. He seemed smaller. Then again, so did she, in the face of Kralkatorrik.

“The others are all right,” Rytlock said in a low growl, not loud enough to carry beyond Vyrea’s own hearing, “Upset, exhausted, but alive. You’ve been out for about a day. They had to pull a shard of Brand crystal out of your leg. Lucky it didn’t splinter, or…”

“Or I’d be in the corpse pit with my throat cut so I didn’t start Branding anyone else?” Vyrea asked bitterly.

“Don’t,” Rytlock said, the syllable sounding like an order and a plea at the same time. Vyrea let out a short breath in response, waiting for him to continue.

“We don’t have much time before we need to get moving again. We can leave some here to protect the wounded and hold the Keep, but we can’t waste any time in going after Kralkatorrik.”

“Purple bastard,” Vyrea growled. “Let me see...I want to see her.”

Rytlock was on his feet in a flash, pressing both his hands to her shoulders to prevent her from standing.

“Vyrea, you need to rest. You were almost killed. Again. Don’t push yourself-“

“I’m not going to sit here and twiddle my thumbs!” Vyrea spat, “To hell with rest; you said we’re running out of time, and by whatever fucking power exists, I’m still the commander, not anyone else!”

Rytlock let her fume for a moment before replying, “At least ask one of the healers to give you a shot of magic, then. You don’t want to get stuck with a permanent limp.”

A flick of his tail, and he was gone. Vyrea struggled into her armor, ignoring his advice, and stalked down the aisle with what she hoped to be a dignified pace and expression, murmuring comfort to the soldiers she passed. It seemed to work, for she wasn’t questioned. Her communicator buzzed as she walked down the corridor, and Caithe’s voice crackled through it.

_“Commander?”_

“Caithe. Where are you?”

_“With Aurene’s...with Aurene. You?”_

“Here still. I don’t know. I should tell the leaders…”

 _“Tell them what? It’s over. Please, Vyrea...she..._ I _need you.”_

“I’ll...I’ll be there soon.”


End file.
